


Up to the Challenge

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Real!Adam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-18 21:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: What if Adam Pierson had been a real person, rather then just deep cover?





	1. Adam

**Author's Note:**

> So....this is new. My first new in 2.5 years. I got caught up in a Thing at work that killed my mental bandwidth to do this sort of thing. But it's done now.  
> ~  
> Also, yes, I know this particular work is heresy. It might not bode well, that as soon as I get back in the game, the first thing I write is heresy.

 

_If Darius knew what it was about, wouldn’t he have told you?_

The book was in _Althochedeutch_. It took three hours in the library to be certain of that. Once he was sure which dictionary to use, though, it went faster. Faster, not fast.  German was not Duncan’s best language, and a thousand years ago spelling wasn’t tidily standardized.

He slogged through it, concentrating on the intact pages, until the library closed.  It did not read like a fairy tale or saintly biography.  It was longer, more methodical, more detailed than anything from that period should be. The book was a thorough, orderly compilation. The mood was scrupulous, scholarly…almost scientific.  It was not a document that belonged in the dark ages.

But though the form was a surprise and a puzzle, it was the content that chilled Duncan to the bone. It was titled _The Fifth Chronical_  and what it seemed to chronical was activities of every observed Immortal in Europe between Anno Domani 875 and 1250. It listed names, locations, spouses, challenges.

It was fascinating. It was beautiful.  It was horrific.

By the time the Librarian shoed him out Duncan felt physically ill. He almost didn’t notice the little weasel following him.

***

It was a couple of days before he had a chance to settle down with his own copy of the right kind of dead language dictionary and take another look at _The Fifth Chronical._  There was no sign of the men who had killed Darius and kidnapped Fitz. No casual men followed him to the grocers. No one was lurking in the shadows when Duncan watched Fitz board a train to Cadiz. The book was the only clue he had left.

The translation was tortuous. He couldn’t be sure of many of the verbs. Some of the place names he didn’t recognize. But the personal names—Some of them were people he knew! Darius, Rebecca, Amanda, Kalas, Ashe, Claudianus, Ceirdwyn, Hamza. It was unsettling, reading about old enemies. It was worse --hard and sad--reading the ancient history of precious friends and lovers who had died. But then there were the names of legends, familiar only from stories: Tek Ne the Smith. Methos the Elder. Aganesthes of Tiryns. Duncan didn’t know what to think about them.

One thing he was certain of was the invasiveness of it all.  None of these Immortals had known they were watched. Somewhere out there must be a book like this with Duncan’s life in it—his cities, his lovers, his challenges, his occupations. Someone had compiled—no, someone was compiling right now—where Duncan lived, who his friends were, what kind of car he drove, that he was still using the Katana—

Immortals tended to keep their swords, even when they changed names, changed countries. The book was full of sketches of swords, descriptions….

 _I can’t hide from them. Even if I left this life, I would have to take up a false name, choose a different sword, grow a beard or shave my head._  

 _Damn them_. What kind of people were these? He could imagine spies. He could imagine historians. He could imagine scholars. He could not imagine them all at once.

When he noticed the scribble—so faint—in the back cover, he blinked and squinted, trying to fit it in the pattern of premodern German he had been struggling with for hours. There were numbers and letters and a word that was not Germanic. Was it code?

He blinked again. The word was written in a modern cursive.

The word was French.

Duncan froze. Was this the message from Darius? He had thought the message was the book, but perhaps--

**_S C 3 7 R Bucherie_ **

What did it mean?

Duncan closed his eyes and breathed slowly.  Tessa had perhaps kept half an eye on him. She came over at once. “What is it? Something bad?”

“A message. Maybe. I don’t know what it means.”

She sat beside him, close and soft and warm. She had not been alone since he had returned with Fitz, but she had not complained at the confinement or lack of privacy. She had the forbearance of a saint.

Now she leaned against his shoulder and frowned at the short, incongruous graffiti. “Is it an address?” she asked. “If SC is a city, 37 Rue Bucherie…..But what city would be S…C…”

Duncan’s breath caught. “Unless S. C. is a person. But then, it could be Bucherie in any city….”

They looked at each other thoughtfully. 

“South Carolina,” Duncan said, the enormity of it descending on him. “Seacover even.”

“There is a Rue de le Bucherie in Paris….”

They had to start somewhere. “How do you feel about spending the afternoon at the café that serves those little poppy seed pastries?”

“The one across from the police station?” She smiled slightly and lifted her voice. “Richie? How do you feel about going out for a while?”

“Oh, thank God!”

***

Duncan dropped them off at the bistro—and yes, it _was_ one of the places their little family was known to go, but it was also across the place from the _gendarmerie._ Even if the sly enemies were still in town, good luck to them executing some nefarious plan while the police came and went not ten yards away.

The next part he could not plan so specifically; he had no idea what, if anything, he would find at number 37.  The home of a friend? A nest of the enemy? Another revealing but enigmatic document?

How much had Darius even known? And if he had known of the danger, of the deaths of those other Immortals, why hadn’t he told Duncan?

Well, that was easy enough to guess. _If_ Darius had known of the hunters, he might have kept silent because of the seal of the confessional. Or, perhaps, some other vow of secrecy. Or because he believed Duncan was safer not knowing?

Had Darius known he was unsafe on holy ground? Why hadn’t he run, even if he could not ask for help?  Were these enemies so omniscient that no escape was possible?

Duncan parked four blocks from his destination; on foot, he could size up the neighborhood. It did not, at first look, stand out from any other part of Paris. Low, old, buildings. Streets just a little narrow. Not crowded; not particularly popular with tourists this time of day?

He turned slowly, craning like a tourist.  No casual, cunning spies in sight.  That American college student had been behind him for two blocks…backpack, scruffy hair, too young to make a likely assassin in this day and age….

Thirty-seven Rue de la Bercherie was a used bookstore. An English language used bookstore. Called _Shakespeare and Company_. _SC37 Bercherie._ _Well. How about that?_ Duncan looked at the book in his hand, shrugged, and went in.

The inside was a cramped warren of overstuffed shelves.  Old books, new books, paperback mysteries, a stack of books on the floor about fishing techniques. The musty smell was pleasant. The elderly tourists by the window were murmuring in Italian.

If this was a nest of enemies, it was the best camouflage imaginable.

The counter was tucked in between two shelves a short way from the door.  A man and a woman—employees, surely—were arguing in French about an obscure cataloging problem. Duncan, content to assess the shop, did not step forward for attention.  The man noticed him first, broke off mid-word, and stared at Duncan, transfixed. The woman followed his gaze, did a double take and snapped around, pointedly _not_ staring at him.

Duncan felt a stab of disappointment. This was the place then. And whoever these people were who knew him, they were not allies. He put on his most suave smile and stepped up to the counter. In French he said, “I was wondering if someone here might be able to help me?” He lifted the book. Nothing suspicious, after all, bringing a used book into a used book store.

The young man turned and fled into the maze of shelves like a mouse diving into a hole. The young woman, abandoned, swallowed hard and managed to squeak out, “How may I help you, Monsieur?”

“Well, I’m an antique dealer, and I came across…” He trailed off, not sure she was listening. Her eyes were fixed frantically on the book on his hands and she was struggling not to hyperventilate.  Duncan felt a stab of anger. _That’s right, you bitch. The thing you monsters tortured Fitz to find, I have it._

But even as the thought formed, it stumbled and scattered; he could not picture these timid shopkeepers torturing someone, setting up a guillotine, hacking the head of a priest in a church.

A mild voice in British-accented English said, “Everything all right, Jill?”

She opened her mouth, shut it, managed, “Just a customer, Adam.”

As the newcomer squeezed past Duncan to reach the counter, it was Duncan’s own turn to take a startled second look: this was the “American college student” from the street. His hair was tidy, his backpack was held neatly by the handle, but yes, it was the same man. Older, Duncan realized, over thirty. _He had me._ It was not a reassuring feeling.

Calm, casual, the Brit nodded toward the back of the store. “Why don’t you go help Don with that new shipment? I’ll take the customer.” As the young woman fled, the new player, Adam, turned his full attention to Duncan. Unlike the others, he made direct, curious eye contact.  “How can I help you?”

“Well, as I was saying, I recently came across a very old book. I was wondering if you did appraisals…?” He held out _The Fifth Chronicle_.

Adam hesitated only a moment before taking it. “It’s very beautiful. Such a shame it is so badly damaged.” His hand shook slightly, as he turned a page.

Duncan gave him a moment to take a good long look.  From the corner of his eye he could see two more people, apparently customers, but very obviously not looking in Duncan’s direction. “Do you think it is worth very much?”

Casually, guilessly, Adam shut the book and handed it back. “I doubt it, with so much damage.  But I’m afraid we specialize in English-language books.  Perhaps the university….”

Duncan looked into his eyes. Was this a man who could behead a monk in a church? Adam looked back, unafraid.  “I don’t suppose you are looking to sell…?” he said.

“You don’t specialize in Germanic books.”

“I’d be interested personally. The illustrations are very beautiful.”

Duncan smiled. “Yes. Especially the swords.”

If Adam heard the threat there it did not seem to frighten him. He was cordial about bidding him good day and inviting him back to shop if he was ever interested in English materials.

Duncan wondered if he should leave as mildly as he had entered or if he should just drop the act now and start taking this bookstore apart. But surely some of the people here actually were innocent customers.  Better to come after closing. Today, before they had time to—

It was a glitter on the window that caught his attention. He glanced again without staring.  He had read about this, laser on glass for auditory surveillance, better than an electronic bug. Well, damn. Who was spying on this nest of spies? An enemy? Or a friend?

He paused outside, window shopping. Where was the observation point? Somewhere across the street, by the angle.  Duncan turned around and considered the baroque building behind him.  Fourth floor? No, fifth. Second window from the left.

Smiling to himself, Duncan dropped the book into his coat pocket and went looking for the rear entrance.

Duncan recognized one of the pair who were running through the rear courtyard; the big guy from the warehouse where he’d found Fitz. The other was a stranger, also large. They both looked panicked.

There were two exits from the court. They froze, glancing hopelessly at the one not blocked by Duncan. They weren’t going to make it, and they knew it. The one carrying a metal briefcase set it down, and they both squared their shoulders, setting their feet for a fight.  One of them reached for a weapon.

He wasn’t nearly fast enough. Duncan had the gun from his hand before he’d taken the safety off. He snapped the man’s wrist as he took it.  The other he felled with a strike to the knee.  Which one was he going to leave conscious for questioning?  Which was more afraid? He would need answers quickly, before some office worker looked out a window and called the police.

“Stop, Duncan Macleod. These men are no match for you. There is no honor in fighting them.”

The English employee from the bookstore.  Duncan straightened and stepped back far enough to see all three of them at once. “Honor doesn’t come into it. They hunt in packs, bind people in chains, and cut. off. their. heads.”

For the first time, Adam’s smooth veneer cracked. “No,” he protested in—possibly honest—astonished horror.

“But that isn’t the interesting part. That’s old news.” Slowly he circled, pinning his captives between himself and Adam. “The _new_ news is they were spying on you.”

“What?”

Chuckling, Duncan picked up the metal briefcase and tossed it across the stone cobbles of the courtyard. Adam squatted down and flipped it open. “Michele? What the hell?” His surprise and anger seemed to be genuine.

One of the captives—the one Duncan had not recognized—surged to his feet and made a break for the further exit. Duncan swept his feet. He smashed face first to the cobbles and spit out a tooth. Duncan restrained the urge to kick him.

“Under whose orders were you surveilling precinct two?” Adam snapped.

Neither answered. Neither even looked at him.

“For what project were you surveilling precinct two?”

More silence.  Duncan cleared his throat. Adam glanced at him and scowled slightly. “I hate to interrupt,” Duncan began.

Adam lifted a finger, produced a late model cell phone, and began a monologue in rapid—and certainly coded—French.  It heavily figured flowers, pastries, and laundry.  When he finished, he put away the phone and smiled apologetically at Duncan before scowling at the prisoner whose face was a bloody mess. “Let’s start again,” he said in a hard voice. “What did they do?”

Duncan shook his head. “You aren’t asking the questions here.”

“Hm. The problem is, I have sworn not to answer your questions.”

Duncan thought about that. “Sworn.”

“On my life.”

Duncan took the book from his coat pocket. “You have sworn not to tell me what this is.”

“Yes.”

“I already know,” Duncan bluffed smoothly. He opened the cover and showed the round symbol. “I know what this means. What I don’t know is why you’re killing us now. I think you didn’t before.”

“We’re not. We don’t. We’re not killing you.”

“Darius.”

“We didn’t, we never would! Darius was one of our great hopes. Even if—No.  Darius was killed by another Immortal. I read the report.”

“Darius was killed in his church.  Another Immortal wouldn’t—another Immortal _couldn’t_ do that.”

“The park--”

“In his church!” Duncan realized he was shouting. He clinched his teeth together.

“It isn’t like that. We watch. We record. We don’t interfere. Please. You have to believe me.”

It was a matter of two steps to close the difference between them, to seize the mild shopkeeper by the throat. “I don’t have to believe anything. I can beat the truth out of you.”

This latest opponent made no move to resist, showed confusion rather than fear in his eyes. “Not you,” he whispered. “You are Duncan Macleod. You do not kill mortals. You don’t even go to war anymore.”

The words were outrageous, unforgivable. How dare this child claim to know him? But there was confidence and adoration and _sympathy_ in Adam’s eyes. That was too much. No enemy had ever looked at him like that.  Panting, Duncan released him and stumbled away.

“We are no threat to you.” It was said so _kindly_ that Duncan wanted to retch.

Duncan looked pointedly at the men sitting on the cobbles. He wiggled the book. “Are they part of your organization? Do they watch?”

Adam looked away. 

“And you? Who do _you_ watch…Adam?”

A long, thoughtful moment. A sigh. “You. I watch you, Duncan Macleod. I keep your chronicle.”

Duncan’s free hand curled into a fist. “You follow me.”

“Sometimes.”

Duncan’s vision began to mist over with anger. He forced himself to step back—and nearly tripped on the suitcase. Angrily, he kicked it to the side. “And fancy surveillance equipment? Do you listen at my windows?”

“No. Not that.”

“What have you written about me?”

“Er.”

A screech of tires heralded the arrival of a nondescript, tan van. The three men who hopped out gave Duncan startled glances but did not make eye contact with him as they snapped zip-ties on the captives and popped them into the back of the van. Adam planted himself bodily between Duncan and the quick, tidy clean-up team. Adam’s back was to Duncan, and though he wasn’t broad enough to actually  provide protection, the gesture was arresting.

When the van and its newly collected occupants were gone, Adam turned around. He was trustingly within Duncan’s reach. “I think I need to take you to my boss. Yes. Yes, definitely. Don will know how to take this forward.”

Duncan lifted his eyebrows.

“Well, I haven’t got a better idea! I wish I’d stayed in research. I was _good_ at research….”

The pace Duncan set back to _Shakespeare & Co._ sent the Watcher scrambling to keep up. “Must be exhausting, following me,” Duncan said over his shoulder.

“You have no idea.”

The bookstore was closed, but Adam led the way in. The handful of employees still scrambling among the shelves froze and gaped as Duncan walked past. It was starting to be irritating.

At the far end of the store was a battered door. Adam entered without knocking and shut it firmly behind them.   The single occupant of the room was a pudgy, middle-aged man with an idiosyncratic beard and eyes that fairly bulged out of his head when he saw whom Adam had brought. “He caught you--” His hand flew to one of the desk drawers. A gun was in his hand faster than Duncan would have expected.

“No! Don! He didn’t catch me! Quick, show him the Chronicle. The book.”

Don appeared unsure what to do with the gun he had drawn. Duncan wondered if he should take it from him. Instead he held up the ancient book, almost enjoying the consternation it brought.

“See? He took that from Watchers he caught hunting down and beheading Immortals.”

“Is that—My God, is that _The Fifth Chronicle_?”

“Um, actually,” Duncan corrected, “Darius left this for me.  I didn’t take it from the murderers. They were looking for it.”

Muttering bleakly, Adam’s boss set down the gun and briefly buried his face in his hands. “Over. It’s over.  They have a chronicle.” He looked up, gulping. “They had a chronicle. How many did Darius tell?”

“Don’t ask him. Ask me. I am standing right here. My name is Duncan Macleod. A pleasure to meet you.  And you are Don….?”

“Saltzer. He is Don Saltzer,” Adam ground out.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Don Saltzer murmured miserably.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Saltzer’s eyes turned back to the book. “They might all know. We have to recall the field agents! Dear God.”

“Never mind recalling all of them,” Duncan snapped.  “You have to figure out which of them are murdering their research subjects. Assuming it isn’t _all_ of them—and I’m not convinced it isn’t.” But that was a lie. Even his raw fury could not convince him these two, at least, were hacking people’s heads off. “Who do your records say killed Damien Thackery? Where was your man on Hugh Fitzcairn when he was abducted and tortured? Someone was watching Darius—or knew when his watcher would be off duty. And by the way, where the hell have you been for the last week, Adam? Where were you that somehow you didn’t know a gang of your colleagues was hunting me?”

Saltzer and Adam shared an astonished, frantic look.

“It can’t be,” Saltzer said. “He’s a global coordinator. For God’s sake.”

“And the records’ audit that had us all tied up for days? A coincidence?”

“Oh. God.”

“A name,” Duncan said.  “And a location would be nice.”

Adam, his eyes squeezed shut, shook his head frantically. “This is our problem. We have to take care of it.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“No. Let us--”.

“Tell me his name!”

“And what? You’ll kill him?”

“Of course, I’m going to kill him!” Duncan shouted.

“And then what? He’s obviously not working alone. How many people can you hunt down and kill? When does it stop? What happens if their colleagues decide they need to protect themselves from you? From all the Immortals?”

“His name.”

“You have to let us handle this!” Adam was begging now.

“Like you have so far? This has been going on for months!”

“It is our responsibility.”

“Who killed Darius?”

Adam swallowed. He did not back away.  “We don’t have much time. This room is probably bugged. You need to disappear. A short vacation where you pay cash.  Don’t try to contact me.”

“No.”

“I am asking you to trust me. If you want them all found, if you want the murders stopped, you are going to have to trust me. Stop wasting time. Go.”

For the next six weeks Duncan wondered how he could possibly have put the safety of his family and friends in the hands of this mortal stranger, this voyeur.

He thought about how badly outnumbered he was.

He thought about strangers who had written his biography.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he left Richie and Tessa with Amanda in a little town in Italy and went back to the Paris. He spread a picnic lunch out on the deck of the barge and ate leisurely.  After an hour and a half there was no reaction, so he fetched a copy of King Lear (for a prop; the play was memorized) and performed it as a one-man show in full view of a thousand windows overlooking the embankment.  By sundown the play was finished and still—no one had come to either kill or greet him. It was almost insulting. He tidied up the mess and went below.

He could just go back to the bookstore? Or perhaps he would dress and head out to dinner at some flamboyantly overpriced restaurant?

He was considering the attractions of a cold shower (he had turned the water heater off before bolting for the Mediterranean) when there was a knock at the door. “Come in. It’s open.”

“Um, hi.”  A face tentatively poked in. “I was hoping that show this afternoon was an invitation?”

“Well, if it isn’t Adam, my favorite harmless shopkeeper. You’re late.”

“Am I?” He shut the door behind him, and, tucking a portfolio under his arm, came down the stairs. “My superiors would say you are at least a week early.”

Duncan lifted his shoulders. “It isn’t finished, then?”

“Oh, no. It’s finished. It is you they are dreading.”

Duncan dusted off a chair and gestured to it grandly. “Do tell,” he said.

Adam unzipped the folder and produced a stack of files. “We identified seventeen hunters, including their ringleader, a man named James Horton. That is him on top, there.”

Yes, that was him.

Duncan flipped through the pages.  Title. Stipend. Home address. Next of kin. “Where is he now?”

“He’s dead, Macleod,” Adam said. “They are all dead. They broke their oath. They interfered with the Game.  The murdered people.  So, we…administered the proscribed penalty.”

“Seventeen….”

“In addition, there were nine more what were determined to be irrevocably compromised.  They have been expelled.  All contact with either Watchers or Immortals is now forbidden them, forever.”

Macleod blinked. Clearly, this was justice, but it was quicker and more ruthless than he had expected. “On pain of death,” he guessed.

“Yes.  They made an oath. They knew the penalties for betrayal.”

“I suspect the French police would still consider it murder.”

“Our society is older than any government in Europe.”

Duncan opened his mouth, closed it, dropped his eyes to the files and examined them slowly; the dead, the shunned. Faces. Names. “And this ends it?” he asked at last.

“If you let it end here, yes.”

“And you will...just continue watching?”

“What else can we do?”

“Hm. Does it violate your oath?” Duncan asked after a moment. “Talking to me now?”

“Just talking to an Immortal, no.  If a Watcher lived in the neighborhood, served you in a shop, parked your car, of course they could talk to you--”

“Is that hypothetical?”

Adam winced. “Yes. Completely,” he said in a flat voice that emphasized the lie.  “The point is, talking is not forbidden. Revealing the existence of the Watchers is.”

“So, we can talk and they won’t….?”

“Shoot me in the head?” Adam smiled briefly. “No.” 

“So, we can talk…. And I can ask you…how many Immortals are currently in Paris?”

“I won’t answer that.”

Duncan nodded. “I can’t ask if you are still watching me?”

“You can, actually. We are deeply indebted to you. And we know that if we put you to the trouble, you could evade us anyway.” He shrugged.

“So--?”

“ _So,_ if you wish, _nobody_ is watching you. We mark your file inactive. We pretend you don’t exist.”

 _It never happened. Watchers don’t exist. I get privacy again_. Duncan frowned.  He went to the galley and retrieved two shot glasses and a bottle of scotch.

“Why did you leave research?” he asked, pouring.

“Ah, why did I--?”

“That first day, you complained you’d left research.”

“Oh. Well.” He glanced leerily at the shot Duncan placed in front of him. “You don’t get promoted without field experience.” He shrugged.

“And you hated it.” Duncan downed his shot and nodded at Adam’s.

“No, I loved it.” Smiling ruefully, he swallowed his whiskey. “Loved it. Watching you was fantastic. The high point of my life. Right up to the moment when you marched into my precinct and I nearly shit my pants in terror.”

Duncan’s single, brief laugh startled both of them. “I imagine it got worse from there.” He poured another round. “Tell me, why did you become a watcher in the first place?”

“Easy one. The history.”

“The history? Not concern about the gathering?” That was what the murderer Horton had said. The idea of the most vicious Immortal in the world rising up and ruling over the mortal human masses had unmanned him.   Almost two `months sitting up at night worrying about it and Duncan could almost sympathize with his perspective.

Adam downed his shot and snorted. “The Gathering. We have been worrying about that for literally thousands of years. I used to catalog tomes of useless speculation. It didn’t come during their lifetimes—why would it come in mine. Especially since--” He broke off frowning.

“Something you can’t tell me?” Something interesting, perhaps.

“No. Something obvious.” He hesitated.  “There can’t be a final Gathering until more new Immortals stop rising from First Death.” He lowered his voice. “I mean, what is the point of being the Only One for half an hour until another pops up in Hong Kong or somewhere, and oops, there goes the prize?”

“That…is a very interesting point,” Duncan managed.

Adam shrugged.  “So, forget the Gathering.  This is about history. The events you have lived through, the things you’ve learned. All of you, not just you personally. And us, too. Watchers, I mean.” He smiled. “In times when it was only the histories of kings that were written down, we were writing about you—names and places, mainly. But also how you lived, what mattered to you, why you went to war. There’s this one list—originally in cuneiform—about how an Immortal managed his plantation, kept his orchards…. It is beautiful, to have that now. That’s why I joined.” 

It was a better answer than Duncan had expected. To cover his approval, he scowled and poured another round.  Adam winced. “I’ll have you know, that is very good scotch,” Duncan said irritably.

“I know it. I also know I can’t keep up with you, and you’re asking me questions. I mean it would be one thing if you only wanted to have your wicked way with me, but the list of topics I cannot discuss is as long as my arm—and I am babbling already. Good God, I am a lightweight.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows and set the bottle aside.

“So, if I decided to permit,” he fumbled over the word, “ _watching_ under my terms…?”

Adam nodded. “We owe you. And we are frankly at your mercy. And damn grateful that you are Duncan Macleod and have some. So. I am authorized to give you anything you want.” He sighed, sagging limply  in the chair.  He hadn’t been exaggerating about the alcohol.

“Except information about other Immortals or the agents who watch them.”

“Except that.” Adam shrugged.

Duncan nodded. “You,” he said, “No one else.”

Adam quickly sat back up. “Me? Your Watcher?”

“Oh, no. You won’t be watching. You won’t be following me. You won’t be overlooking the barge. You are not invited to challenges.” He probably already had been. Duncan decided not to think about either the danger of a quickening’s collateral damage or the obscenity of a witness to the heads he’d taken.

Adam pressed his lips together, visibly holding back some protest.

“I’ll call you. Once a month or so. With updates. If there is a challenge, I’ll tell you. It is right, that somebody record the names of the dead. I suppose I’m glad about that.” He took a deep breath. “If I move, I’ll pass along the address.”

“So…you’re Watching yourself.”

“More or less. Less. I’m not getting that tattoo. Do you have a problem with it?”

“No. Your terms. Your terms. My superiors… weren’t entirely sure you wouldn’t kill me, so. Yes. Fine.”

Duncan blinked at that. “You expected me to kill you?”

“No. _I_ didn’t.” And he smiled, joyfully, delightedly, trustingly. _Damn. Damn_. How could anyone who knew Duncan’s history look at him like that?

He gathered up the files and handed them back. “One last thing, and we’re done, then.”

Adam nodded, looking slightly relieved.

“Your last name, if I’m allowed to have it.”

“Pierson,” he said. “I’m Adam Pierson.”

 

`TBC


	2. Methos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan put it on the calendar, and on the fifteenth of every month he called the number from memory and had a friendly chat with Adam Pierson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: without the return to Seacover at the start of Season 2, some events happen differently, some happen at different times, and some never happen at all. For a start, if they stay in Paris, not only is Richie still alive, so is Tessa.

 

He put it on the calendar, and on the fifteenth of every month he called the number from memory and had a little chat with Adam Pierson. Yes, I’m still alive.  Yes, everything is fine. We’re going for a weekend in Tuscany (or wherever). How are things at the home office? (Adam never answered that)

Sometimes there were names: Pallin Wolf. Quentin Barnes. Arthur Drakov. Nefertiri. Those were longer calls, as Duncan passed on whatever details he knew of the life he’d taken. The loss he felt was not regret—or not usually regret. But even the ugliest past, he found, was better unforgotten.  It was a strange and surprising relief to pass the burden of remembrance to a sympathetic ear.

And then one day, baffled and out of ideas, he called to ask a question.

_“Who—Macleod? Is that you?”_

“Yes, listen, I need to--”

_“My God, are you all right? What’s happened?”_

“I’m fine. I just need--”

_“You’re early. Today is the ninth! Macleod--”_

“Just shut up and listen, will you? I need to ask you a question.”

An audible breath. _“Oh. You know I can’t tell you anything about others. Even if they’re friends.”_

“I’m not asking about a person. I’m asking about a thing. And I’m not asking a Watcher. I’m just asking a historian I happen to know.”

“ _I’m an archeo-linguist_.” Another hesitation. _“All right. I’m a historian.”_

“What do you know about the Methuselah Stone?”

_“Yeah…that will take a while. Can we meet somewhere?”_

It was Adam, a month later, who asked for a meeting: Saint Sebastian’s.  Curious and wondering when Adam had started to be afraid of him, Duncan went to the church. Adam was carrying the portfolio again.  Duncan studiously did not stare at it as he joined the Watcher in the back row.

“Xavier St. Cloud,” Adam said. _Oh._ It wasn’t Duncan he was afraid of.

“I know the name. It’s one you can’t discuss.”

“Yeah. About that.”

Duncan waited.

“He’s hired a small band of mercenaries. They abduct Immortals. He gets the head.”

“That’s cheating!”

“It gets worse--”

“Hey—are you referees now? Is that what this is?” Duncan did not like the sound of that at all.

“Macleod,” Adam said wretchedly, “they have Watcher data. One of the compromised agents we expelled sold out. St. Cloud is on his way to Paris. And he knows where you live.”

Duncan kept still, his hands folded calmly in his lap. “How many others in Paris?”

“I told you, I can’t--”

“Does _he_ know, though? Does he know who’s here? Does he know where Amanda is right now? Where Connor is? Where Fitz is?” Grace. May Ling. Sean. Jim. What chance would any of them have against a squad of mercenaries who had their addresses? “This is what you are going to do. You are going to send an anonymous note to every Immortal in France and warn them that Xavier is coming. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Adam shifted nervously. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. The plane lands in six hours. We can take care of the mercenaries. Arrangements are in place to arrest them on weapons charges and smuggling drugs. The weapons part is true. But. For reasons you can understand, we cannot—we _must_ not—deal with St. Cloud.”

“So you want me to work with ... you?”

“Obliquely. Unofficially. Unless you have a better plan.”

Duncan didn’t have a better plan.

When it was over, he invited Adam over for a drink. Adam declined.

It was several months before he saw Adam in person again. It took a moment to sink in that he _had_ seen him. Duncan was jogging along the embankment and was a good twenty feet past the bench where Adam was sitting before he stumbled to a halt and looked back.

Adam waved.

Panting, Duncan jogged back and flopped onto the bench beside him.

“So. Macleod. Know anything about Vampires?”

“Vampires. You’re a barrel of laughs, you are.”

“Yeah….”

Duncan gave him a dark look. “Any particular reason you want to know?”

“None I can discuss.”

“And yet, here we are….” Duncan prodded.

“Let’s not talk about vampires. Let’s talk about serial killers, instead.”

“I know something about that too. We didn’t always call it that.”  But Adam didn’t need to say any more, and it only took three days to find Nicholas Ward. Politely, showing his respect for his secret society’s absurd rules, Duncan never thanked Adam for that warning. 

When Tessa invited Adam to Duncan’s four-hundred and second birthday party, Adam brought a copy of a photograph of Duncan with Amanda and Rebecca from the 1880s. It was a very thoughtful gift.  Impossibly generous. He hoped Adam would not get into trouble for it. His employers were strict.

Duncan was still thinking of that the following week when he took Adam for lunch at Maurice’s and passed him _The Fifth Chronicle_.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you refusing?” Duncan countered.

Adam ran his fingers lovingly over the spine. “I’m not sure I….” He paused for a long time. “There are some kinds of information the coordinators might trade for this.  Not anything specific about anyone alive _now_ , but…. It would be taking advantage of you, just to take it.”

Duncan thought about that. There was a request he’d been wanting to make—and many, many reasons why he hadn’t. And he had meant to give the chronicle as a gift.

“Yes?” Adam prodded.

“What if I wanted something general? Statistical information?”

“Statistical…information. Like average Immortal lifespan? Cities with the most challenges?”

Duncan took a deep breath. “Age at first death and life expectancy.”

Adam nodded slowly. “You want to know if a particular age at first death confers an advantage. Yeah. Muscular development, brain development, you’d want  to maximize that….but if you wait too long, it starts to slip down hill. And different for men and women.”

“Unless experience is more valuable than youth, in the beginning.”

Adam made a face. “Tough call.”

“So? Do you know?”

“I don’t. We might have those numbers. We might not: we’re historians, not demographers.”

“Will you look?”

“I’ll look,” Adam said. He glanced sideways at Duncan. “Is it Richie?”

Duncan would not answer that, not even to lie. “I never killed a student.  It’s done. And I understand the reasons. I thought,” he sighed. It was such a difficult thing to talk about. “I thought it was God’s decision, not mine. Who was I, to push someone into this life?”

Adam smiled sympathetically. “Who are you, to deprive someone of the best chance to live forever?”

“If the Gathering—but you don’t believe in that.”

Adam smiled diffidently. “What do I know?”

“Too much,” Duncan said at once.

“So? Do you want me to see what we’ve got?”

Duncan nodded.

***

It was two weeks before Adam stopped by the barge with a number: for male immortals, the magic age was between twenty-six and twenty-eight, with a brief and nearly as high spike for the early fifties.

So.

That gave them six years. Duncan toyed with the idea of telling Richie for his twenty-fifth birthday and letting him decide for himself. Richie would be a man by then. He would have had a good long look at Duncan’s life. He would be in a position to choose his own path.

The irony three days later when Richie returned from a cross-country bike race resonant with presence nearly broke Duncan’s heart.

He had motioned Tessa toward the bathroom and positioned himself near the katana, waiting for the knock at the door. Richie didn’t knock. He stumbled straight in, visibly dazed. “Richie, who’s with you?”

“Nobody, Mac.”

Duncan drew the sword. “Someone is out there--”

Sadly, fearfully, “There’s nobody, Mac. It’s just me.”

He put the sword away, out of sight quickly. A naked blade must have been the most terrifying sight in the world to Ritchie now.  “What happened?”

“I don’t understand,” Tessa said, coming slowly forward. “What happened.”

Duncan swallowed the lump in his throat. “He died.”

“Are you _sure,_ Mac? Really sure?” Richie asked hopefully. “I mean--?”

Duncan dropped his eyes. “What happened?”

“I took a turn too fast.”  He blushed slightly with shame. “I was behind.  I was stupid. The mud here isn’t like mud at home. I—I went off the road, into a ravine. It was pretty deep.”

“Did anybody see you?”

“No. Nobody saw me. They didn’t realize, until the race was over.  I heard them come looking.  There was some blood. I told them…..” He sighed wretchedly. “I’m sorry, Mac.”

“It doesn’t matter, Rich. It’ll be okay.” _Years too soon. Years. I’ve barely taught you to fight unarmed_. Duncan had to look away for a moment.

Tessa--poised, kind, wise Tessa--rushed forward and swept Richie into her arms. They both began to cry.

“No, hey,” Duncan said quickly. “Nothing to mourn here. Richie’s fine. Get cleaned up, and we’ll go out. There’s that American pizza place. We’ll celebrate. It’s like a new birthday.”

“But, Mac.”

“Being an Immortal isn’t a tragedy. It’s just….different. That’s all.” He swallowed dryly.

“The pizza doesn’t taste like real pizza,” Richie protested weakly.

“Then we’ll go for Japanese. Something new. How does that sound?” Duncan smiled. “Go wash up.”

***

When Brother Paul came to Paris on a promotional tour for his monastery’s second record release     Duncan, who had four seats in the front row, invited Adam along. The performance was transcendent. Richie, who had been initially dubious about Gregorian chant, was astounded by the music and gushed enthusiastically. Tessa was charmed by both the concert and the company. Adam absorbed it all in rapt silence. It was a wonderful evening. The wonderful music, the sweet reminder of holy orders, seeing Paul again--it brought back old memories, most of them good.  His first long pause on holy ground, it had been a revelation in so many ways. Duncan had been so damn young then….

Adam was charmingly delighted at both the historically authentic music and an observation of an elusive Immortal. There were limits to how much socializing with Immortals his conscience could withstand, though. He made himself scarce as soon as the concert ended. Duncan kept Tessa and Richie behind to meet Brother Paul.

The next morning Paul was supposed to come to breakfast at the barge. He didn’t show. 

When he was over two hours late, Duncan gave up calling and went looking.  It turned out that Paul had not returned to the hotel after the concert.  He had not been seen leaving the concert hall.  Desperate, Duncan went to the police. Nothing there, either.

When, frustrated and worried, he returned to the barge, Tessa and Richie were gone. There was a post-it note with a Watcher symbol drawn on it stuck to the phone. Duncan dialed Adam’s number.

Adam answered with, “ _Tessa and Ritchie are fine, they’re with me_.”

“Why?” Duncan asked, ignoring the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

“ _Macleod…Brother Paul is dead. Kalas killed him last night.”_

The breath left Duncan in a horrified rush. _Paul_.

“ _It’s too much of a coincidence. He was using Paul to flush you out, and there you were at the concert last night. Macleod, are you listening? He knows you’re in Paris. You won’t be that hard to find.”_

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut. _Kalas._ He locked his teeth on a scream of rage.

_“Are you listening? Kalas musts have used Paul to find you--”_

“And you couldn’t tell me yesterday--” Duncan snapped.

“ _We hadn’t put it together yesterday. And we only got a man back on him Tuesday. And he never approached Paul. They were never in the same room together until—never mind. That’s not the point. I’ve got Tessa and Richie out of the way, but that’s all I can do for you_.”

Right, right. Adam believed in non-interference. Observe and record. He had trashed his oath just by taking Duncan’s family out of play. “Thank you. Look. I have to go.”

He went back to the concert hall. And waited. Kalas would be looking for him. Simple enough to be easy to find, right? Let Kalas do the work. In fact, he had to wait for six hours before Kalas showed up. And then the fight, finally, after all this time, was interrupted again. This time the police and _damn, damn the slippery bastard got away. Again._

And while Duncan was trying to figure out how to track him, Adam walked right up to him in a hotel lobby and very softly said, “Please, I need your help--”

“Now is not a good time.”

“It’s just—do you know where Kalas is?”

“Obviously not,” Duncan ground out, “or I wouldn’t be scrambling around Paris trying to find him, would I?” Another thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Are you following me? We had a deal!”

Adam ignored that. “It’s just that his Watcher stopped checking in. And he won’t answer his phone.”

“That is really not my problem.” Duncan pulled away, stalking toward the door.

Adam scrambled after him. “It’s just that—this isn’t the first time.”

Duncan halted and spun around. “The first time, _what_?” he hissed. “The first time you’ve shadowed me or the first time—No.”

Adam nodded. “His last Watcher disappeared, too. Three weeks ago, in Nice.”

Duncan rocked back on his heels. “Any chance he was caught?”

“The higher-ups didn’t think so at the time. But, yeah, maybe.”

Duncan cursed thoroughly in Russian.

“That about covers it,” Adam agreed.

Things only got worse from there.  Kalas might not have gotten very much out of his previous Watcher, but twenty-four hours after the most recent one disappeared, Kalas hit a mortuary the organization was using as a cover business. Two men and one women had been on duty.  They had all been brutalized before being killed, but none had given up combination to the safe where the records were kept. Kalas made off with whatever had been open on the worktable when he broke in, but nothing else. Adam was trying not to weep as he asked for Duncan’s help.

Duncan did his best. They didn’t even have the name Kalas was using now. His former identity, a producer with the independent company that had published the choral music, was abandoned. It was a matronly office manager at the Watcher headquarters—as usual, not quite making eye contact even when speaking to Macleod directly—who suggested that perhaps he’d had some friends or acquaintances in the business who might know something.

“I’ll start asking around,” Duncan said.

Adam opened his mouth to protest.

“No, you need every field agent you can spare at the airports and train stations.  I’ll do it.”

“All right. Take my cell at least.”

Duncan sighed. He had stopped bothering replacing them. “Electronics--”

“Take it, damn it. It will last long enough, won’t it? It won’t matter what happens after.”

It was a fruitless, pointless waste an afternoon, and Duncan would have resented it if he had had anything better to do. As it was, he rushed from one office to the next hoping for a miracle, interrupted every hour or so by Adam checking in by phone. Repeatedly reporting failure did not improve his mood. When the phone rang again, while he was on his way back to his car from an office that had closed for the day, he nearly didn’t answer it.  When he did, he only grunted, “What, Adam?”

_“Macleod? Where are you?”_

“Tracking down record producers. Where I’ve been all afternoon.”

Impatiently, Adam named an address. _“How fast can you get there?”_

“Twenty minutes, maybe. Why?”

_“Kalas just trashed the bookstore. He killed Don--”_

“Damnit, I thought you’d cleared out--”

 _“It isn’t Watchers. It isn’t us he wants. He’s looking for Methos. He tortured Don.”_ Adam stopped, gulped. “ _He’ll go after the head of the Methos project next. You’re closer than I am.”_

“Wait. That’s stupid. Methos isn’t real.” Duncan was already running back towards his car. He nearly tripped over his next thought: “Is Methos real?”

_“Kalas thinks so. Can you imagine the advantage that would give—a Quickening five thousand years old?”_

“Kalas is an idiot.” It would destroy you, a quickening that old. It would break you. 

_“He’s an idiot who is probably on his way to our guy now. And it won’t matter that he doesn’t know where Methos is. Kalas won’t believe him. Macleod, please--”_

 “Can you warn him? Can you have him meet me?”

 _“No, his car’s in the shop and—it’s just not going to work. You have to get there.  His name is Joe Dawson. You should be ahead of Kalas. Just. Just hurry._ ”

Duncan had reached his car. He shut the phone and pictured Paris in his mind. Twenty minutes if he took the bridge. Hopefully, this one wouldn’t waste a bunch of time pretending not to notice that Duncan was talking to him.

The address was a newer apartment complex: sleek, ultramodern and ugly. The unit numbers didn’t seem to be sequential.  Duncan found himself doubling back at a run twice before he realized that apartment 405 was on the ground floor. Adam’s palpable panic had infected him; Kalas had killed at least five watchers already—

As Duncan reached to knock on the door he realized he was too late. There was already another Immortal here, perhaps even inside.  Too late.

 _Not_ too late.  Kalas was abducting and torturing.  Even if Kalas had this researcher already, the man was surely still alive. Sword in hand, Duncan turned the knob. Unlocked.

The apartment was chilly and cluttered with books, musical instruments, and religious art. Every light was turned on. Silently, slowly, straining to hear any sound, Duncan crept through the living room. _Where are you?_

He paused to check the tiny, galley kitchen. Nothing.

The hallway was short and wide. Here, at last, Duncan heard something. Typing. Or, rather, keyboarding. A computer.  

There were three doors in the hallway.  Duncan checked the silent ones first: a loo and bedroom, both well lit, both empty.  Puzzled, scarcely breathing, sword ready, Duncan stepped into the last room.

Seated at a desk, typing steadily, was a man in late middle-age. The doorway was easily within the man’s peripheral vision, but he did not pause or look up. Duncan cleared his throat.

“Be right with you.”

Duncan frowned. “Joe Dawson?”

“Yup.” The typing continued.

“But—there is no one else here.”

“That is true.” Smiling slightly, Dawson clicked his mouse, shut down the computer, and swiveled to face the door square-on. “Well. I would have thought Adam, at least, was exaggerating.”

Perhaps Adam’s explanation had not been clear. “Kalas is coming! He’s looking for Methos. You have to get out of here.”

Dawson nodded. “We have ten minutes at most,” he said calmly.  Impossibly calmly. Duncan had met half a dozen Watchers in the last few days. All of them had been terrified of Kalas. Even an Immortal hiding among watchers—

 _He is hiding among Watchers._ “It’s you. You’re Methos.”

“That is a reasonable conclusion.”  Dawson picked up a cane hanging from the arm of the desk chair, planted his free hand flat on the desk, and stood. The movement was jarringly wrong; he didn’t stand with his legs, but on them.  Braces? Prosthetics?  Duncan’s head whirled with the impossibility of it. Meanwhile, the ersatz Watcher librarian who might be Methos continued, “Let’s say it’s a correct one. Let’s say—for the sake of argument—I’m Methos.” He looked Duncan over thoughtfully. “That means you have a decision to make. What are you going to do, Duncan Macleod?”

 

Decision? “We have to get out of here! He’s coming. We’re six blocks from the nearest holy ground.”

The man who was possibly Methos nodded slowly. “That is a very good answer,” he pronounced, as though the question was hypothetical and this was only a test. “But it’s the wrong one.”

“We don’t have time--” Duncan saw the hand move. He felt the firm impact that shoved him back into the door frame. He didn’t see the knife until he looked down. Only then came the searing pain—worse when he tried to gasp. “I’m not—your enemy,” he wheezed. He tasted blood, tried to gasp again.

The man who was probably Methos nodded kindly. “I believe that. I do. And I apologize for ruining your shirt. But I don’t have time to argue with you. I’m going to deal with Kalas, not you.”

Duncan fumbled for the hilt of the knife. His fingers wouldn’t close properly. His knees gave, and Duncan went down hard. “You cheat.” The words had no voice behind them at all.

Probably-Methos laughed. “Cheat? How do you figure that? It isn’t even like I play the Game.” He came closer, stopping just out Duncan’s reach. “I didn’t go looking for him. I didn’t challenge him. I didn’t put myself out there as bait. Hell, I’m hiding in the last place anyone would look. And by the way, Kalas is not coming for a challenge. He is coming here tonight to torture a mortal archivist who never even got Watcher field training-- _to death_. And you? You want to give him trial by combat, like he was a gentleman, like there was some question of right and wrong to be decided by the Hand of God.” Duncan could barely hear him over the roaring in his own ears. His vision was tunneling. “And you’ll risk your head for that? You? Like hell. But I can see you have a problem with all this, so I’ll leave you out of it.” As he passed Duncan on the way out the door, Dawson reached down and patted him almost companionably on the shoulder. “I’ll pull the knife out when it’s over.”

***

It was Adam’s upside-down face hovering close above him when Duncan revived, choking on clotted blood and blinking dry, burning eyes. Even knowing it was Adam, he surged against the arms that held him. “Shut up, damn it!” Adam hissed. “The fire department is still here.”

“What?” But yes, that was the grating scent of burnt electrics.

“Sh. It’s over. You did it. You got him,” Adam whispered.

Duncan stifled a hard cough against his hand and looked around. He was still in the den. He’d been hauled behind the desk.  “Wha’ happened?”

“We got here in time to see the last of the quickening. What a mess. We got the body out before the fire department arrived.” He winced. “Another freak electrical storm.”

Duncan tried to get his hands under him to sit up. It took three tries. The third try only succeeded because Adam supported from behind. “Easy. No rush,” Adam whispered in his ear. “We can’t explain the blood on you, so you have to stay in here.”

“Kalas is dead?”

“Yes. You beat him. It looks like it was a near thing.”

 _I didn’t beat him. I didn’t fight him. Dawson…._ “Dawson?” _Methos._

“Joe’s fine. He’s in shock, I think. Jillian is with him. They’ll get rid of the public servants and then you can go home.”

Duncan hunched forward, breathing through the pain.

“I called Tessa and told her it was over and you were fine. That was probably a slight exaggeration.” And then, “I can see it was a close thing. Macleod--”

Adam did not sound any less upset then he had for the last three days. _He thinks I fought Kalas_.  Duncan laughed once, aloud. The fading pain jolted him in response. “Would you get me some water?” Duncan asked to get rid of him.

“Sure. Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Duncan had a few moments to collect himself before Adam returned with a tumbler of ice water. “The last of the firemen is on his way out.  You can get up when you’re ready.”

The water washed away the taste of blood and cleared Duncan’s head a little.  He heaved awkwardly to his feet and followed Adam back to the living room.  The burnt smell was stronger out here, and it was joined by the smell of fire extinguisher propellant. There were shards of glass everywhere—every lightbulb in the place must have broken. The only light in the room came from an ugly post-modern floor lamp that had clearly been brought from somewhere else. The rug had been moved; probably covering blood on the floor.  _Idiot._ A quickening indoors might have brought the building down.

The man who was probably Methos was sitting in a wing-back chair. A woman was crouched beside it, speaking softly. When she looked up, Duncan saw that it was the woman from the first day at the shop.

Instead of looking away, she stood up and turned toward him. “I don’t know if you remember, Monsieur Macleod. I’m Jillian.”

“I remember.”

“Thank you. For what you did for us. We can’t ever repay you.”

Duncan forbore to point out that _he_ hadn’t done anything at all. “I’m just glad he was stopped.” And that was true. Cheating or not, Methos or not, Dawson had put an end to Kalas’ horrors.

With another grateful smile, Jillian returned to chair, leaning worriedly over Dawson. Duncan stifled a snort; that one didn’t need sympathy. He was as efficient and cold-blooded a killer as Duncan had ever met.  And then Dawson looked up and Duncan reconsidered.  He did not look middle-aged, he looked _old,_ every bit of five thousand years. His eyes did not quite focus.  His skin seemed greyish and stretched too thin. The hand Jillian was not holding was shaking. “I should thank you too, Macleod,” he said hoarsely.

Duncan rolled his eyes.  Two Watchers and they couldn’t tell who in the room had just taken a quickening. So much for professional expertise. “It was nothing,” he said, dripping modesty. But then he did feel a little sympathy. Kalas’ quickening had to have been a bitch.  And probably-Methos wouldn’t have been able to take it standing. The more of your body in contact with the ground, the worse it was.

“Joe, are you sure you won’t see a doctor?” Jillian coaxed.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I really think—is that blood?” Her voice squeaked on the last word. Panicked hands groped plucked at his shirt.

“It’s not mine! I’m fine.”

“There’s a hole--”

 _Oh, damn_ , Duncan thought. He needed to intervene. “Let me take a look--”

“Oh, God! Joe! He _killed_ you!” Jillian wailed. “He killed you, and--”

“He did not!” Probably-Methos growled.

“You came back!”

Groaning, Adam shoved Jillian out of the way to examine the remains of the wound himself. “Joe!” He spun furiously on Macleod. “You let him get killed! I sent you here so he would _not_ get killed.”

“Yeah, about that,” Duncan said.

“ _You_ shut up,” Probably-Methos snapped.

Duncan smiled at him.

Adam pulled away and began pacing. Jillian rocked back to sit on the floor. “What are we going to do? You can’t be a Watcher, Joe.  You’ve become an Immortal!”

Probably-Methos cursed in English and buried his face in his hands.

“Do we even have a procedure for this?” Jillian asked miserably.

Adam was knotting his hands together. “There is a form I think...” he mumbled distractedly.

“Yeah. There is a God damn form,” Probably-Methos snarled. “It dates to the 1880s.  Efficiency and detailed paperwork were very popular in the 1880s.”

“Oh, Joe,” Jillian mourned.

“We don’t….we don’t have to report it,” Adam said tentatively.

Probably-Methos groaned. “We do. You’re a lousy liar, and Jill…” he sighed. “Jill, you fill out the form; you discovered the change. Copy to personnel. Copy to the regional coordinator. Copy to me. Form L 47, Killed in the Line of Duty with Addendum A, Revived as Immortal. Damn.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jillian said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Probably-Methos said gruffly. “It wasn’t your fault. But you should probably get going. You and I aren’t on supposed to be on speaking terms anymore.”

Miserably, Jillian kissed him on both cheeks, exchanged a bleak look with Adam, and plodded defeatedly out the door.

“Joe,” Adam began.

“Oh, shut up a minute, all right? I need to think.”

“He’s going to need a teacher,” Duncan said, aiming for an earnest and concerned delivery.

The look of hope and gratitude Adam turned on him killed Duncan’s glee at this little farce.  Adam took everything so seriously. For days colleague after colleague had been brutally murdered, and now the last one Adam had tried to save was going to be cast out into—as far as Adam knew—a strange and dangerous world that he was unprepared for.

But then Adam froze, arrested mid-step. “The timing isn’t right,” he said. “Recovery from First Death takes between 1.5 and nineteen hours.”

“On average,” Probably-Methos snapped.

Adam turned to stare at him.

Probably-Methos sighed.

Shaking his head, Adam stepped backwards, his shoes crunching on broken glass. “It wasn’t, was it?” Adam whispered. “It wasn’t the first time? You were already…. You were always….”

Probably-Methos rolled his eyes. “Well. Isn’t this just the perfect day.”

“You…were…always….” Adam swallowed, glanced at Macleod. “You had to know!”

Duncan shrugged sheepishly. “Not my secret to tell.”

“Always,” Adam groaned.

The worst of the quickening’s effects seemed to be passing; the Immortal who was almost certainly Methos turned a piercing gaze on Adam. “Well, come on then, Genius. The obvious conclusion is right there in front of you. You’re going to get it all eventually. Might as well get it over with.”

 “You can’t have been Immortal. You’ve gotten older.”

“Wrong answer. I just cut back on the hair dye. You can do better than that.”

“Macleod didn’t kill Kalas, you did.”

“Well, yes. But that isn’t what I meant.”

Duncan stifled a snicker.

“You tricked us,” Adam said. He sounded hurt.

“Obvious, but still not what I was going for. Come on. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m going to have to pack.”

Adam licked his lips. “You lied and tricked us and…you’ve had access to our records for twenty years. Oh, God, you’ve been hunting. You’ve been using us to _hunt_.”

“What? Not that. No, Adam, never--!”

Duncan felt a spike of alarm.  This allegation wasn’t funny. After the horrors of the last week it was entirely possible that the Watchers would respond very swiftly and permanently if they thought an Immortal infiltrated their organization to cheat at the game. He stepped between Adam and the man who was almost certainly five thousand precious years old. “No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

“He had access to everything—reports, the archives--”

“It is easy enough to check. Did the number of challenges from unknown opponents in France increase after he arrived? You have the numbers. But—listen, Adam,” Duncan laid a hand on his arm. “He’s no hunter. He could have used you to get me any time in the last year.  Hell, he could have had me tonight, if he’d wanted.  He’s an asshole, and I think I sort of hate him. But he’s using the Watchers to hide, not to kill.”

“Thank you, I think,” Methos drawled tartly.

Adam closed his eyes. “Just hiding. Hiding…and looking for someone who may not even exist. You’re trying to find Methos.”

“Almost there, kid. One more step. Get it over with.”

“No!” Adam exploded, dropping to his knees beside the chair. “You’re horrible at poker! You can’t cook! You started a garage band. You can’t be Methos.”

“That’s your rationale? I can’t _cook_?”

“It is not possible for someone to live for five millennia and not know how to cook.”

“Of course, I know how to cook--”

“I’ve had your pasta. You can’t even boil water.”

“I _can_ , I just hate doing it. The best way to avoid doing something is to be bad enough that no one ever asks you to. As for poker, losing money is a shortcut to popularity. The garage band?” he shrugged. “I’m pretty damn good.”

“Joe.” A wail. A capitulation.

“There. That wasn’t so complicated, was it?”

Adam looked away, swallowing hard. “Why would you trust me with this?”

“You mean, aside from you being my friend? And honorable? And loving history more than anything? No, actually, that about covers it.”

“Aw, Joe,” Adam groaned.

Methos reached out and took one of his hands.  “It’s okay. This isn’t the end of the world. Joe Dawson adapts to his ‘new’ status with a monastic retreat. It isn’t the first time.”

“You must have spent…an awful lot of time in monasteries.”

A shrug. “On and off for the last nine-hundred years or so.  My picture is on file, now. I can’t just disappear. The safe thing to do is…what a newly Immortal Dawson would do. Damn. I was enjoying this life.”

“I’m so sorry,” Adam said.

“Not your fault. Man, this really screws up my long term plans.”

“It doesn’t,” Duncan began, not at all sure he would not regret this, “It doesn’t have to be a holy ground.”

“It does if I don’t want to look suicidal. Assuming Adam keeps that part of the secret.”

“Of course—Joe, I never would--”

“What I mean is,” Duncan interrupted firmly, “I’m known to take students.” He smiled suddenly. “A younger brother for Ritchie. It would look perfectly natural.”

“You would?” Adam asked hopefully.

“Me? Your student?” Methos was unflatteringly indignant about this.

“Hey! I’m very congenial. I have memberships with guest passes at three gyms. And I am not only good at cooking, I like doing it.”

“Are you serious?” Methos asked.

“You couldn’t keep your whole life. I’m pretty sure you’re fired from your day job. And this apartment is trashed. But you could keep the garage band and the identity. You’ll get to see Adam sometimes. For a while anyway.”

Methos scowled. “And what do you get out of this generous arrangement?”

Duncan grinned, pleased to be one step ahead of the ancient.  He’d better savor it; it wasn’t likely to happen again. “Me? You aren’t going to be my student. I’m going to be yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. About that heresy.


	3. Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

It took two days for Duncan and Adam to pack and move Methos to his new place above a tourist bakery in the Latin Quarter.  It was close enough to the barge that anyone Watching would conclude that Duncan was keeping a close eye on his new student.

The new apartment was much smaller than the one trashed by Kalas’s quickening, so more than half the boxes of books and musical instruments were shipped off to storage. When the last box was carried up the stairs and stacked in the tiny bedroom, Duncan—just to annoy his new teacher—demanded beer and pizza. Adam—to his profound dismay—had to eat and run.  He had a meeting at Paris headquarters, and “I’m helping some Immortal friends move” was not the kind of excuse that would go over well.

“Meth—“ Duncan began, shutting the door behind Adam.

“If you ever say that name out loud, it’s over. You will never, ever see me again.”

“Doesn’t it get to you?” Duncan asked curiously, picking up a tidy stack of disassembled bookcase, “never hearing our own name?”

That earned him an impatient look. “You really think somebody named a kid Methos?”

He had thought that, yes. Put down the ancient’s name as yet another thing he didn’t know. “Right. Joseph. So, what’s the name of your garage band?”

“Garage Band,” the man Duncan must not ever think of as Methos answered, emphasizing the English.

“Very American.”

“I like America.”

“Have you been?” He leaned the bookshelf uprights against the only wall wide enough to support it and tried to remember where they had packed the screws.

“In fact, that’s where I spent the 20s. It was glorious. The best decade of my life.” He rummaged in a box and tossed Duncan a ziplock bag of furniture hardware. “Well, second best. No, wait. Best. Definitely.”

Duncan, bemused, thought about the glorious madness of the Jazz Age. “Yeah?”

“I was on the road with a band....”

“Performing? Professionally? Do you have a level?”

“Yeah, here,” He pulled a tool kit out of another box and passed it over. “I’m good. I’ll have you know I was a troubadour for Elinore of Aquitaine. Not, you know, _that_ troubadour. But I did my share of popularizing courtly love.”

“Wow.” Elinore of Aquitaine. It took a moment to wrap his mind around that and come back to the main issue. “But how—if you’re on stage how did you hide from other Immortals?”

“In plain sight.”

“But you can’t— _Can_ you disguise your presence?”

A sigh. “No. Look, what do you do when you feel one of us?”

“Look for him. Or her.”  

“And you know them because--? It isn’t like presence gives distance or even really direction.”

It was the other person looking around. “But it’s instinct, to look around. How do you stop  yourself?”

“It’s not instinct. It’s a conditioned reflex. A habit.  You can beat it, if you try long enough.”

“And that worked? Well enough to perform in public?”

“Yeah, mostly. The last challenge I was in was nineteen twenty….two? Yeah. Nineteen twenty-two.  In Chicago.”

Duncan did the math in his head. He wondered if that were a record for an Immortal not confined to holy ground.

“That will be your first lesson; no more identifying yourself by default. From now on, you don’t look around unless you want to.”

“I always want to.”

“One step at a time, kid.”

 

~fin


End file.
